Porsche Panamera Turbo

First place: The Color of Real Money.

In the movie, there’s a scene in which a competing hustler notices Vincent Lauria’s cue case. “What you got in there?” he asks.

Lauria looks up, smiles, and says, “Doom.”

And that’s pretty much what’s packed under the Panamera Turbo’s hood. Using its launch control in full spleen-rupturing mode, this grand tourer runs to 60 mph in 3.5 seconds. That makes it quick as an Audi R8 V-10 and a Ferrari 430 Scuderia, neither of which possesses back seats. Funny that the first Panamera Turbo we tested [“24 Hours of Dayton,” December 2009] was, incredibly, 0.2 second quicker. Or doomier.

What’s more, the Panamera’s back seats really are back seats, offering terrific kneeroom, a supportive (if hard) seat cushion, and generous headroom. For two adults, it’s easily as comfy back there as it is in several mid-size sedans we could name.

Gem though it may be, the Panamera lost points in three categories. Let’s start with the most obvious. Unless you stare at this Teutonic titan pretty much head-on, it looks like the Pillsbury Doughboy if the Doughboy gained 400 pounds and had a couple of ­basketballs attached to his butt. “It has presence but isn’t attractive,” wrote road-test editor Mike Sutton. Mr. Sutton is a generous gentleman.

Second, the seven-speed double-clutch transmission (or, as we affectionately call it, the good ol’ Doppelkupplungsgetriebe) has drivability issues on throttle tip-in below 5 mph. The throttle performs an antsy, mildly disconcerting stutter-step, and the driver will counter with a sharp stab of gas that, often as not, provokes the car to leap.

Third, the steering wheel’s fussy push-pull paddle shifters were apparently designed by a hamster and four Girl Scouts. In the heat of battle, it’s hard to remember if a push or a pull triggers an upshift or a downshift. Luckily, the main console shifter can be set in traditional fore-aft manumatic mode. Luckier still, the seven-speed transmission—left in full auto mode—is simply uncanny about adapting to the driver’s inputs, knowing when to hold gears in turns and when to downshift rapidly to supply engine braking. Not that the brakes need much help. Our test car bled off 70 mph in 158 feet, 12 inches shy of a Lotus Elise SC’s best effort.

It wasn’t until we began abusing the 20-inch Michelins at GingerMan racetrack that we knew for sure which car would emerge victorious. With the chassis control toggled to full-kill “sport plus,” the optional dynamic anti-roll bars ($4460) keeping the Panamera trailer-park flat, and the Sport Chrono Package Plus ($2280) lending the V-8 some overboost, the Porsche hunkered down and just plain hammered, feeling much like a Nissan GT-R. “It’s light and willing on turn-in,” commented Schnitta. “It follows your inputs, and the tail steps out just the right amount for rotation. And when you nail the gas at the exit, man, this thing just squats and takes a huge bite, blasting out like a cannonball. Compared with the Aston, I’m working a lot less but building a lot more speed. Too bad it doesn’t sound fun.” (Great, even bar owners write livelier than us.)

“The Panamera is a better high-perform­ance vehicle,” concluded Sutton. “But the Rapide is a better execution of what a car like this should be—all that cachet, curb appeal, that raw emotional draw. The Porsche is ­better equipped, more capable, cheaper, and faster. But the Aston is cooler. And ­ultimately, that’s what this kind of buyer, I imagine, is after.”

Alas, C/D voters are strongly encouraged to vote rationally on these tests. Otherwise the outcome might have been different, or at least much closer. So, we’re sorry, Aston, but, as “Fast Eddie” observed, “The balls roll funny for everybody, kiddo.” And as Vincent Lauria added, “Stings like a bitch, don’t it?”

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